Page 162 of The Difference Between

Remy playfully hip checks me and offers me a glass.

“None for her,” Rue says.

My smile somehow widens. “Extra for me actually.”

Nash steps out of the pantry with crackers and points a finger at me. “That’s my girl.”

I step out of Gavin’s grasp and fill a flute—all the way to the top—and throw it back like a shot of liquor.

Then I refill it.

Rue laughs. “Finally, she relaxes.”

“Ha,” I manage, right before I drain the next glass and half of the next.

As I enter into a competition with myself to see who can get shit-faced first, Mom takes the spotlight and tells a story about champagne and a New Year’s Eve party she and my dad went to years ago.

“Hey,” Gavin says into my ear. “Is everything okay? I didn’t hear from you.”

I can’t look at him. Now or ever again.

“Nothing I’m not handling.”

After the next glass, I check my phone—I have less than eight minutes.

I can’t be in this room with all these people—especially Gavin—but the only way out is through. After this glass.

“Hi, Miss Reese.” Addie steps next to me and takes my hand then gestures for me to get closer with her index finger. I bend down so my ear is at her mouth, and she whispers, “I love you.”

She smiles up at me. My heart aches then breaks, but I do not cry.

I kick my heels off—her favorite: my Louboutins—and give them to her. Her eyes go wide, and her mouth drops open.

“I have to go on a trip for work,” I whisper so only she can hear. “But I want you to have these while I’m gone.”

It’s an impractical gift—they’re huge on her and exorbitantly expensive—but she wraps her arms around me. “Thank you.”

Gavin’s eyes are all over me.

“Go play,” I tell her.

Shoes in hands, she runs to the other kids in the living room. Her “Look what Miss Reese gave me” sounds like it’s coming from the bottom of the Mariana Trench.

I take a deep breath.

Gavin’s hand is on my back. “Did something happen at the appointment?”

“Nothing.” That’s not a lie. Nothing happened because nothing ever will happen. “Please stop touching me.”

He drops his hand, hurt fills his face, and I hate myself more than I hate my forever-empty uterus.

“Well,” Remy says, killing the chatter that’s picked up. “Are you going to tell us what’s going on or what, Ree?”

I drain my drink—turns out three or four or seven glasses of champagne aren’t enough to make me forget my reality—and force a smile. “Ha.” All eyes come to me. “Yes. What I have gathered you here for is to tell you that I have deci⁠—”

The slam of a cabinet door cuts me off.

Nash winces and raises a hand in apology, but instead of finishing my thought, I watch him finish the insignificant process of filling a cup with water then giving it to Rue. She smiles at him—it’s tired—then takes a sip before eating a cracker.